, 1887-02-16
a SERVANT LASSIE.

heaven jus. as well as Draw folk. The
poor were never despised by Him when
Hc was on earth.
Heigho, lhavena written half a dozen
lines q my story yet. and I'm sadly CON
sc.ols that I've made blunders already.
l mean to write it a in English, and if a
hi; Scotch wordie does tumble in moo
and again TN sure you'll forgie me.
When | warm to my work I'll get better
on. This is the way wi n Scotch folk;
when no excited it's their own broad
Dorio they speak, but my conscience, if
yol once put up their birse it's as fine
sounding English they'll speak IL any
souticner that ever stepped in shoe
leather.
Ny name is JEANNE, JEANNE Mclean,
that's it a thegither, or complete as l
ought to say. From far, far north the
Tweed come, ay, and north the Dee rs
well. AS far west as the train can pene-
trato among the Donside hills, on a bon
ME braehead, among Bonnie green knobs,
among woods o. dark waving fir and
t'pruce, lighted up here and there wi the
tender green of the feathery larch, and
begirt wi bands o yellow broom and
gowden furze, there stood my fathers
DiltlDlt GU. anu every night II NY
happy young life / used to be lulled to
sleep by a sound like waves breaking ON
II shingly beach; for, If it wasn't the
wind whispering and moaning through
the trees, it wa the incessant hurtle o
the Don rushing on over the pebbles and
powders. SO near were we TO the river
that dear johnnie could throw q stone
right over it. A strong, strong arm had
Johnnie. Johnnie was my only brother,
and | never had a sister.
Ny mother died when Johnnie and l
were 50 young that neither of Us could
remember her, and Grannie kept my
fathers house. Dear aud Grannie, with
her clear caller. canty face, and her busy
happy ways, it is years ago since she has
gone To her long hame in the auld kirk
yard. She aye had a pleasant smile for
Johnnie and me, and used to tell us old
world storier, in the long forenigbts %
winter.
Imagine us, if you can, gathered round
that Scottish country fireside, a great fire
of leats and wood is blazing and cracking
on the hearth there is no other light.
At one corner sits my father in an easy
char, his days toll is past and his pipe
IS alight; ut the other is auld Grannie,
and click, click, click, click, go her knit
ting wircs as she tells her tale, Johnnie
and | complete the circle; our eyes arc
rive,cd on Grannie's face. The smoke
goes curling up the wide chimney, the
blaze sometimes following yards high.
tho wind without is roaring and whist
ling round the house, shaking doors and
dnldling windows; but it makes us feel
Ak the snugger within. l Just creep
cloeer to Johnnie, lean my head oil his
shoulder, and listen.
BY and by Grannie stops speaking. and
Tor a while tho wind has it all its own
way; then my father rises solemnly and
puts his pipe away in the w '-hole.
BARNS. let us worship God" he
says.
Grannie lights the black oil lamp, with
IL dried rush wicks, and father takes the
look. He reads a chapter, then, to the
half mournful notes Of some such tune
~ hartyrdom, we sing, perhaps, The
Lod's My Shepherd"
There was always plenty to do, and
Johnnie and | were never sorry When
: ibbath came. Sabbath and q long
walk to the wee bit kirk on the hill head.
where in earnest and impressive voice our
to1l minister would point the way to
happier spheres; he never failed to breathe
words of comfort for the weary, consola-
ton cor the bereaved, and hopes of future
joy for all.
Never a Sunday passed that Johnnie
and | did not linger behind, till all the
other kirk folk had passed away out and
honewards, then we would go quietly
round and visit mothers grave. Thu
was not all sentiment, both of us loved
mo her, though we hardly remembered
.ccing her. But her mortal remains were
there in that aud kirkyard, and they
would rise again. such was our simple
faith; and we never looked upon mother
a. dead, but as a saint in heaven, She
could see us, we thought, nay, might
even he permitted TO watch over us, and
lovingly guard and befriend US in trial
and in danger. She saw us each Sab
bath. then, MS we bent low and touched
t'ir grassy knoll and laid thereon our Of
lrrings of flowers. Humble enough
th,so might be, but in spring there were
tn sweet scented yellow primrose and
sprig, q crimson may, in summer there
were always rich buttercups and rich OK
eyed daisies, and n hundred wild flowers
from hedgerow and copse; ever winter
brought its garlands of red rowans and
IL ryergreens. 80 NIL the,-Sear1 round
nnnlherAsSve meves wanted beauty.
Tint old churchyard and the wee bit
kirk. ] have but to shut my eyes and
they rise up before me. What though
the kirk itself was stecpleless, the bell
devoid of music, the grass long anil
green m the graves. and after rain look
ing ~ though it had been combed down;
what though the tombstones were gray
and lichen clad, and leant in %everydirec-
ton except the right one-mother's grave
WAS there,
You English maids may laugh at me,
but nh, -you little ken how dearly we
Scotch mountaineers love our wild
homes: besides, you know-I'm only q
simple servant lassie.
umr Johnnie could play the fiddle so
a",ctly. 1t was the merry airs auld
Jimmie liked the best, but there was one
ihui- that Johnnie used to play and sing
thai never failed to bring the tears TO my
cy,r at least; though somehow 1t was n
sweet kind of melancholy it inspired, md
neither grief nor melancholy ever %injurcs
the heart il tears can flow.
Had | any other companions except
Johnnie Yes, a neighbor lassie would
sometimes drop in, and-well, why
should | deny it, sometimes n neighbor
la1die why shouldn't n simple Scotch
iasis like me have "A bit sweetheart
WI Ut for no!
But it was only ON Sunday evenings in
ia" fNeet summer time that Jamie and |
u-1l to take a lonely walk. And where
lid we walk. think you? Why, down
ihN linz. You zee in the far north of